work

Sorry I've been so quiet. (if, in fact, that's a bad thing ... yeah, yeah.)

The job has been wild for the past couple of weeks, and promises to be so right up until the minute that baby pops out. Right now it's because we've just begun using a new computer program to design our pages and do everything else we do here at the newspaper, and wow, could I go on and on about how not-fun it is. I am not the techno wizard that some others are. I have not the brain for instant comprehension of these matters. And so, do I work harder to compensate? No, I pretty much curl up into a ball of denial until the very moment I have to begin work on said new system. And then I cry inside. A lot.

Our department was the first to 'go live,' by virtue of our weekly deadline as opposed to daily for the news side, and we just successfully put out our very first magazine in the new system -- yay! This was due mostly to the Herculean efforts of my boss and coworker, for which I'm not proud. I will say that it's tough when I'm told I need to find three hours for a repeat glucose test, and the kindergarten thinks it's mandatory that I attend a graduation planning meeting, a 'summer program' planning meeting and a parent/teacher conference at around this same time. And when our stupid commute situation doesn't really allow for me to linger extra hours.

Okay, enough about all that. Just wanted to explain the relative silence on this end.

'normal'

At the end of a fairly crappy day at work, I come home to a phone message that the three-hour glucose test indicated that all was all normal.

Whew.

the music of the night

I've been looking forward to tonight's episode of American Idol for as long as I've known about it. If you're at all intrigued by this show, particularly the train-wreck appeal, I highly suggest you tune in tonight.

It's Andrew Lloyd Webber night, people. I just don't know how much more beautiful it gets than that. And I'm saying that after having seen Dolly Parton night, and Mariah Carey night.

My only regrets are that there are only six singers left, so only six ALW-penned performances; and the dramatic, full-throated singing options likely mean the end of my favorite potential Idol, Brooke.

THIS ... is excellent escapism!

too MUCH sugar, apparently

I took a glucose tolerance test on Thursday afternoon. Apparently, I failed it. Not by a lot, I'm told, but by enough that they want me to re-test -- this time, for three hours.

So, tomorrow morning I'll be sitting at some random office on K Street for three hours, not having eaten anything since the night before. I wish there were a way to communicate to the wee (unborn) child that, yes, I know you're squirming around because you're hungry, but, no, I'm not allowed to give you anything just yet. Except that blast of sugary glucose drink. I hope my innards survive the thrashing.

In the grand scheme of things, even if I do turn out to have gestational diabetes, I suppose it's not that big a problem. But I'm feeling a bit mopey about it. I just don't want to have to deal. Let's just get through the next three months in a normal-type fashion and get the show on the road, people.

two spoonfuls of sugar

I had a cute exchange with each of the other fam members over the weekend, and I thought I'd share them both at once.

First, Lizzy: When I'm around her, I just want to squeeze her and kiss her constantly and tell her how much I love her. It's been really hard to adjust to the idea that perhaps she's too old for quite that much physical affection. She still tolerates it often, but I know I should start backing off to some degree.

So I'm trying to think of new ways to show her I care, without being too ridiculous about it. Sometimes, I'll just ask her a question. (a technique I remember using with my mom, who didn't always appreciate it. And in fairness to her, I'm growing to see why a moment or two or quiet now and then is a mighty blessing on the days you're around your kids 24/7.)

So I asked Lizzy a few days ago: If you could have one wish, what would it be?

Last year at this time, whenever we'd see a wishing well or fountain kind of thing, she would wish for a cat, or a baby sister or brother. But now that she's getting both in a few months, I was curious about what else she might wish for.

She said: "I wish that I could have a play date every day, and that all of my friends would come to my house to play." Have I mentioned that she's quite a social girl?

As for Matt, he has to endure quite a lot of moaning about what bearing a child is doing to my body. I'm sure 99 percent of husbands of pregnant women can relate (and the other 1 percent are probably deaf). This past week, I noticed that the dreaded Third-Trimester Swelling has begun to set in, despite the fact that I'm about a week off of being in what's considered the standard third trimester.

I remember the cankles of six years ago. Goodness, I do not know HOW the body retains that much fluid, or why, but it's an absolutely astounding ability. Lizzy is amused by my new tendency to turn myself upside down on the bed, with my feet propped up and leaning against the wall, while she reads me my bedtime story. (now that she's reading, she usually insists on reading the book herself. And she very successfully puts me just about to sleep most nights.)

So I was complaining about the impending cankles to Matt, and he smiled sympathetically and said, "I guess that's just what it takes to make a Lizzy!"

And somehow, with that simple sentence, he made it (almost) all better.

put a book in 'em ...

They're done.



Aren't the built-in cabinets lovely! I'm just excited to have a room that I can sit in once again.

Actually, they're almost done. We have crown molding to put in along the top, but won't get to that until probably next week.

Matt and his brother, Nick, pulled an all-nighter doing touch-ups and cleaning up the room. What a lovely surprise for me when I came downstairs in the morning.



When their dad got home at around 7 a.m. (he lives in the basement for now), he admired the cabinets, too, and Matt said to him, "You actually get to see it before Ivy does!" Which is funny, because Ivy is his fiancee halfway around the world, who keeps up with the family goings-on by reading my blog (Hi, Ivy!). Then she tells him what we're up to. That just cracks me up. It takes women to get any information conveyed, that's for sure.

Close-up views, pre-books:




(the mantle's new, too!)

counting on the commute

Leave it to my daughter to come up with the one way to make the morning commute seem longer.

"How much time until we get there?" she asked.

"Oh, about 10 minutes," I say, inwardly growling at the slow-moving inside-the-beltway traffic.

"How long is that?"

"If you counted to 60 ten times, that's how long it would be."

"Oh, okay."

Then she proceeded to do it. And didn't stop, even when we pulled into the parking garage. Apparently, I had unknowingly issued a challenge.

"Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen -- how many have I already counted?"

"You've counted to 60 three times."

"Oh yeah. Now, where was I?"

It's a really good thing she's so cute.

answering the call of duty

I had jury duty today.

I actually had it last week, too, but F@irfax County has a deal where you can call in and see if your 'group' is needed. Mine wasn't last Monday, which was lovely.

But my number was up today, so I dragged my Monday-weary family out of bed a little early so they could drop me off at the courthouse.

I was a little late, which made me nervous, but it turned out we sat around for another half hour before being shown a slightly cheesy video regarding jury duty ("I mean, why me? Out of the thousands who could have been called?" I love the narration.)

I was struck by a few things -- the predominantly white, apparently middle- to upper-middle-class, mostly older population in the jury holding room. The building itself was nice (though the cafeteria left much to be desired -- it was being closed in a week or two, and I'm afraid to ask why), and everyone was extremely polite to us -- I felt like a bit like we were all VIPs for the day. I suppose it benefits no one to make a potential juror angry.

While we waited for action, I eavesdropped on some ladies who had been called in during the previous week. Apparently, there had been a jury selection for a five-week trial. Five weeks! I went in there thinking that two days would be the worst they could do to me. Yikes. I'd hate to see the look on my boss' face if I had to present that sort of situation to him. "Hey, Brian -- yeah, I realize we're launching an entirely new paginating system here in two weeks, and that means everyone will be working fifteen times slower than they usually do, because we don't really know how to use it yet, and we've all been warned that we can't take vacation OR get sick, but -- you know, jury duty!"
And a couple of months before a maternity leave, at that.

I didn't wait too long after the fun-times video viewing to be called to a courtroom. We stood around outside the door for awhile -- I heard that, often, cases are settled by the lawyers while a jury pool waits around outside the door. I find it interesting that this would occur, but the mind of a lawyer is something I cannot consider myself familiar with. At any rate, this didn't happen to us. We were eventually let in, and thirteen of us -- including me -- were directed to sit in the jury box.

My one previous jury-duty experience didn't result in a trial. This was when I lived in D.C., probably about eight years ago. I was up for selection for an armed robbery trial -- it might even have been manslaughter, I don't exactly recall -- of a takeaway chicken place on 14th Street. Somewhat exciting.

This case involved a woman who didn't like the scars she was left with after she went to a plastic surgeon for a facelift. I can feel my eyes rolling even as I type that. Not that I consider plastic surgeons to be the most sympathetic populace in the world, themselves, but I told myself, if I was selected, to be as impartial as possible.

This proved harder when the first lawyer, for Scar Barbie (no visible scars, by the way -- they were allegedly behind her ears), proved to be a jack@ss. Shouldn't a trial lawyer at least assume a pleasant persona? Maybe he thought he had. Sheesh. Anyway, we heard a litany of potential jurors who had once known doctors, or who had taken a couple of law classes in college 30 years ago, or who had had cysts removed from their faces. None of the lawyers' questions prompted any response from me.

Then they asked a few people about their occupations -- they had no data for these people. Aha! So they have data for the rest of us. SWEET.
I have this theory, based on my one previous experience and that of other fellow journalists, that for whatever reason, lawyers want to avoid newspaper persons (or maybe media people of all stripes) at all costs. I'm not sure exactly why, but it seems to be legal kryptonite, somehow. My days of plopping movie and book reviews on pages and designing packages about military officers who craft beadwork in their spare time might unduly influence me in these matters. Very well. If they say so.

Sure enough, whether it was the occupation or some other reason (age? I was younger than most of the other jurors, though I don't see the relevance. Pregnancy? I cannot say), I was one of those 'stricken' from the jury box. Whew! No four-day trial for me, though it might have been one of the more entertaining ones. Back to the jury holding pen I went.

I heard more scary stories about longer trials that others had narrowly avoided, or that they'd heard about. I love F@irfax County's problems. Botched plastic surgery and class-action lawsuits against sewage treatment plants. Boy, now THAT one sounded like a hum-dinger (sarcasm).

Maybe an hour later, we were excused. Free from jury duty for another three years!

Yes, yes, it's a little exciting to think of one's civic duty being performed. To be part of the process. But the other part of me just doesn't want to be bothered. I strike this deal with the legal system: I'll try to leave IT alone, if IT tries to leave ME alone. Oh, and I'll happily pay my taxes, as well. The deal is back on -- for three more years, at least.

what does it say about my work ethic ...

That I shuddered uncontrollably when the hubby called me at work a little while ago and said that at his office, e-mail and the internet are down? Perish the thought! I was appropriately sympathetic.

It's been a pretty mundane week. Sorry to any of you who have checked here for Exciting M. Family News Flashes. We're chugging along -- Matt slaving over his increasingly impressive built-in cabinets into the wee hours of each night, while I fall into bed, exhausted, with Lizzy at around 9:30 or 10 p.m. He's quite a guy, that hubby. Check here soon for completed (or almost so) shelf photos!

The baby's been kicking the crud out of my midsection this week. It doesn't hurt - she's not yet big enough to be a real threat to my ribs at this point (as, ahem, someone else was, once upon a time). It feels weird, but I kind of like it. And then I worry -- is she trying to tell me something? Is she unhappy? Hungry? Telling me to lay off the caffeine? That last one seems plausible, though the kicks don't seem to come right after I've had my morning cup of indulgence. They're more concentrated before and after I eat -- so maybe it's, time for food, and then, thanks for the food? In reality, it's probably not communication at all. But I like to think so.

Baby update, shelves, Cougs losing pitifully in NCAA Sweet 16 ... is that all the recent action? It's looking like my parents will be visiting in a week, which is great news. And it will probably prompt us to give the house a much-needed pick-up!

While I'm rambling about not much, may I mention for my fellow A.I. fans how disappointed I am in this season? The contestants are not all that likable. The judges will not stop screwing around instead of merely delivering their opinions. I never, ever thought I'd say this, by Ryan Se@crest is, increasingly, becoming my favorite part of the show. And you know when that's the case, you're in truly desperate times.